


Doubts and Fears

by DaughterofProspero



Category: Macbeth - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Ambition, Fear, Friendship, Marriage, POV Second Person, Pre-Canon, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 06:49:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11076249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaughterofProspero/pseuds/DaughterofProspero
Summary: The marriage of Macbeth leaves Banquo uneasy. For some reason he cannot place, he does not trust this new wife. Charming she may be, dutiful, and polite...but something about her frightens him.A look at Banquo's struggle to protect his friend from a threat that no one else seems to see.





	Doubts and Fears

You say nothing. Why would you?

Your friend is happy, and you are happy for him; so, you say nothing. You dismiss the churning in your stomach as mild jealousy. His marriage will not be the end of your companionship; you trust him more than that. Yet the churning continues. The wisps of nonspecific doubts do not fade. In fact, they intensify into something more substantial.

At first, her little smirks and coy demeanour incite only a chilly prickle of gooseflesh; but soon the chill morphs into an icy finger dragging its ragged nail down the notches of your spine, leaving twinges of dread in its wake. Still, you say nothing.

Because there is no nameable cause for the sharp alarum bells she triggers in your skull. No pattern of behaviour that tightens your innards, no particular action that stands the hair on the back of your neck on end. In a matter of weeks your discomfort has become as justified as any belief you have ever held; but your conviction – however insistent – remains as baseless as it did when first you felt your stomach churn.

So you puzzle over your agitation in silence. Time marches impassively on without providing an answer to your unease…Until the day Sinel – Worthy Thane of Glamis – dies. The good old man passes on, her husband, your friend, solemnly accepts the mantle of Thane and delivers a gracious eulogy. His wife stands at his side, shedding appropriate tears. When he finishes, everyone bows their heads in respectful remembrance. You follow suit but no sooner have you done so than something moves you to steal a glance in her direction. And that is when you know.

All the descriptors that eluded you before this moment, dancing infuriatingly out of reach leap to your mind. The reason for your unevidenced disquiet summed up in that _look_. The look in her eyes – dark as night sky – that morphs from a keen twinkle into a blazing inferno when she has him – her husband, your friend – in her sights. It was always in your periphery: this fire in her midnight eyes. Waiting. Wanting. Hungry.

Her head is lowered like everyone else’s but those eyes are not. Fixated on her mourning husband, the spark of ambition smouldering so brightly through her crocodile tears, you are amazed it does not burn him alive where he stands.   
But no one else sees. No one else knows. So you say nothing.

Not long after, a visit is arranged. With his new position, new responsibilities have inevitably followed so you invite your friend to your home for a weekend of relaxation. He gratefully accepts the offer, but assuages your concerns for his mental well-being. His wife has been his rock, he says, and you hide your grimace under an appreciative nod but say nothing.

The weekend passes without incident. _She_ rarely leaves his side, but the moments you do have alone with him are pleasant enough. Fleance delights in the presence of his godparents, and your wife has always enjoyed playing the hostess. As it ever has been, the only discomfort resides in you, and you alone.   
Perhaps living in close quarters – even for such a short period of time – has heightened your anxiety, as after dinner on Sunday, you excuse yourself to write a letter while the rest of the party head into the sitting room. On your way to join them after finishing your task you hear a shriek: High, shrill – that of a child. A terror unlike any you have ever known rips through and you charge madly down the rest of the hall, bursting into the room. All eyes turn to you, except for that of Fleance, who giggles in his de facto godmother’s lap. She has been bouncing him on her knee. The shriek was one of joy, not…fear, or sadness, or pain. He is fine. Everyone is fine.  
Your murmur an apology, and your friend gives you a quizzical look, then shakes his head bemusedly. His wife smiles in polite understanding and turns her attention back to your son. Her slender fingers around his fragile body set your teeth on edge. She looks at him and the gleam of hunger flickers feverishly in her eyes.   
You hold your son close when they leave. Your wife asks you why. You say nothing.

More time passes. You see less of your friend than you used to but your bond is no less strong. Your discomfort regarding his wife – whom he often praises – persists, but you learn to numb yourself to it’s gnawing. Your friend is happy and you are happy for him. Or are you happy that the hunger has not sharpened in his eyes as it has in hers? You feel like you are winning, but when did you go to war?

When next you visit Inverness, your friend greets you with open arms and a hearty smile. She is by his side, half hidden in his shadow. She too, graces you with a warm welcome but you have never felt colder. And it must show. Her chin tilts upwards ever so slightly, her eyes flash, and she snakes her arm around his. She stares at you, into you, and you realize she knows. You said nothing, but you didn’t need to.

When Macdonwald’s rebellion rises and you are called to arms you are almost glad, in a twisted way. The first time you will have your friend to yourself since…you can’t remember when. You’re going to tell him. You must.

But then the fighting begins and you are forced to push those thoughts aside. His Majesty has underestimated the enemy. Macdonwald’s forces tear through your men, and none more ruthlessly than the traitor himself. Every spare moment is spent strategizing, or falling into sleep’s welcome embrace.

The tide turns thanks to your friend alone, who dispatches Macdonwald with one savage blow. Raising the traitor’s severed head like that of Medusa, the remaining enemies flee and the day is won.

He receives the endless praise humbly, and you are proud. However she may try she has not infected him yet. Still, you think, once you reach Forres you will tell him of your doubts.

But then a strange thing happens. Beyond strange. A weird and mystical thing. The heath before you is suddenly obscured. It seems the earth itself is shifting as though it were no longer solid and belches roiling miasmas of foul mist in your way. From the frothing fog emerge three figures. They hiss and croak tantalizing prophecies, their voices both near and far, loud and soft. And then they vanish, as suddenly as they appeared. The earth settles and you are ready to scoff at the peculiar intrusion. But the laughter dies in your throat as you see your friend, her husband staring into space and you would swear flint strikes in his eyes. For a moment he is hungry.

And you say nothing.

It is too late.                                                                   

**Author's Note:**

> So this came from a cool moment in rehearsal where I noticed they guy playing Banquo seemed to be giving markedly more hostile line readings to our Lady M. I asked him about it, and he had made the choice to play something I've never seen done/heard anything about (though the play's hundreds of years old so what do I know): That Banquo doesn't trust Lady M.  
> Thought it was super cool, made a joke about writing a story about it...then actually wrote a story about it.  
> Thanks for reading! :)


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